


The Fleeting Warmth of the Sun

by Twilit



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort, PTSD, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-27
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-07-10 12:21:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6984841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twilit/pseuds/Twilit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>crossover: <i>n.</i> 1) a change from one style or type of activity to another 2) a point or place of crossing from one side to the other. 3) the placement of two or more otherwise discrete fictional characters, settings, or universes into the context of a single story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fleeting Warmth of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there, thanks for reading. Please consider reading my other work, [Life is Hard (and No One Understands)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5275565) before this one. You don't have to, though.

The damned black dress is far too tight for your tastes, but your publicist says it’s perfect for the evening, paired with what she calls “serious business” boots. Huge clunky things that add another three inches to your height, you’re pretty sure their appeal to her was less the “business” and more the fact that they’re the closest she was getting you to wearing heels. 

Another woman might find a compliment in the sour looks other women shoot you, but they’re just as wearying as the men’s blatant looks of lust. You are getting sorely tired of the publicity circuit, but with a new book and movie coming out, it’s just another part of drumming up interest and funding. Your dad would be so proud. And perhaps a little jealous; confidants tell you that the rate you secure contracts and pledges outstrips his by a mile. 

To be fair, he didn’t have the advantage of twenty-first century social media, or a savvy filmographer or, and your face screws up at this, your sheer sex appeal. You are so thankful that Sam stayed on to work her magic until the release of the film. You don’t know what you’ll do without her, once she goes back to Japan. You-

You shake your damn head because this is not an appropriate place to be pining for someone who wasn’t even your girlfriend.Just someone you cared deeply about, someone who’s life was your sole focus through untold hours of hell and-

No, no you are _not_ doing this. That ship sailed years ago, you’ve both had partners since. You can go to the shrink tomorrow. You just need to get through this evening stable and smiling and then you can guzzle the wine in the hotel’s minibar all you like. You swallow, blink and take a breath. You have a goal and a quick check of your smartwatch gives you a timeline. You can do this. You _will_ do this. 

You plaster a polite smile on your face and give your attention to the portly middle-aged man approaching you. A senator, one that you recognize and not one that drives you up the wall or to gagging. He’s a good conversationalist too, and you let yourself be drawn into his leading questions about the next expedition, about release dates and all the things that are good for your career. 

That is, of course, when she comes to your attention. A blur of blue garb and brown hair, brushing and sidling past worthies, her shoulders not yet hunch but _cocked_ forward, a prelude to…

Well. You don’t know. But that strange awareness that something is wrong is strong with you, so you make your excuses to the senator, nod at a few others and follow. Which is difficult, considering that she’s already out of sight. Ahead, you can see a hallway leading out of the ballroom and the washrooms. You almost make for those, but no, that was not the stride of a woman in need of the loo. 

You leave the ballroom and stride out into the hallway, eyes darting. Immediately an emergency exit sign catches your eyes and your feet take you through it. Pushing it open, you realize it never shut properly, the catch in the door not having seized. You are more confident in your tracking now. The hall you emerge into is coldly lit in blue, a sudden, blinking contrast to the warm lighting of the public space. And distantly, you can hear the too-familiar heaves of someone having a panic attack.

You consider padding silently down the hall, but discard it. So you keep your steps firm, but unthreatening and round the corner to find the woman in blue bracing herself against the wall, palms against it, arms ramrod straight. Breathing seizes and dark blue eyes flick to you through thin bangs and your blood runs cold. You’ve seen those eyes. Somewhere between predator and prey, a woman just trying to survive. You freeze in recognition of your past.

“Hi,” you say, lamely. “I, ah noticed you leave and just wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

Those eyes hold yours for a moment and then disengage, slowly losing focus and drifting back to the wall, the point at which it meets the floor. Her attention is on her breathing and she’s fighting to keep it under control. You’ve been there and you respect her need for control. But you step closer, one, two, five steps and just before she flinches, you turn and lean your back against the wall. 

“If it’s alright with you, I’ll just wait here until you’re ok.”

Eyes flick back to you, but don’t even make it before her shoulders spasm. A shrug, you realize, or an attempt at one. It ends with them hunched up though and you can almost feel the knotted muscles in your own back. Her eyes are fixed on a point and her breathing is horribly forced, but she is wrestling it under control. She looks like she’s hauling herself out of it.

And then her legs tremble, knees give away and she collapses against the wall, sliding to the floor. You’re kneeling beside her immediately arm around her shoulders.

“Hey, can you hear me? Hell, you’re freezing! How long have you been like this? Come on, talk to me.”

Your rubbing her arms now, trying to warm her up and trying to shake her out of the worst panic attack you’ve ever seen. Slowly turning her away from the wall, you hold her close and turn her head towards you. Making eye contact is pointless, her eyes are glazing over. But she’s familiar, now that you can see her face, yet you can’t place her. 

You pat her cheeks firmly, “Come on, snap out of it. LIsten to my voice, I’m here. Patting your face. It’s alright, you’re safe here with me. Can you hear me? Look, I’m going hold your hand, see? This is me, this is real.”

You intertwine your fingers with her, and sure enough her eyes begin to track. She even sits up a bit in your lap. 

“That’s right-” Something falls out of her suit pocket. A wallet. You pick it up with your free hand, flip it open. _Maxine Caulfield._ The photographer. Her work from the Ukraine is being featured tomorrow, she must have checked in early. 

“That’s right, Maxine, come on back, you can do this.”

At the sound of her name, she twitches, hand clasping yours with real strength. Lips that have almost gone blue form words, but too quiet, even from this intimate distance. Blue eyes come alive in a lovely, heart-shaped face and begin to track.

“Sorry, I missed that, care to repeat it? You’re going to be fine Maxine, you’re pulling through.” You give her hand a squeeze again and she returns it. As your palms and fingers rub together, you can feel too-familiar callouses and you swallow, feeling a bit of… unfortunate kinship with her. There are other callouses, ones you think might be from guitar. You’ve dated a musician, you think that’s right.

“I said,” the young woman whispers, her eyes welling with tears now, “It’s Max.”

“Alright then, Max. You’re through the worst of it. Can you tell me where we are?”

A swallow. Blinking away tears, her free hand coming up to rub at them shamefully. 

“Olympia, Washington. The Hilton. Some service passageway.”

“Good, just focus on the present. You’re kind of cold, would you like to get back where it’s warmer?”

“I- That’s…” she makes a pained sound as her voice fails and her hold on your hand tightens. Your gut clenches, remembering the problems you had with crowds the first time you returned from hell.

“Nowhere, public, I promise. Come on, we can slip upstairs. Can you stand?”

Between the two of you, you manage to get her to her feet. She’s tall, matching your height even in these boots. It makes her pressing into your side awkward, but you don’t dare, don’t want to push her away. From standing, it’s a short walk back to the hotel proper and you slip her up some stairs to avoid notice. Once on the second floor, you ask her, 

“Can you remember your room?”

She shakes her head and manages, “Don’t have one. Not staying here.”

You curse your assumption. “Alright, do you mind coming to mine? We could also just stay here.”

She shakes her head and grips your hand tighter. “Yours.”

You summon the elevator, take it to the uppermost floor. It’s then a few steps to your suite and you heave a sigh of relief that you didn’t encounter anyone on the way. A wave of your card and you’re through, leading Max to the suite’s couch and lowering her there. Seated, the difference in height is more obvious. You should be the one crawling into her arms and _yeah wow, reign it in there girl._

Max takes a huge breath in and holds it. Then, in the course of letting it out, breaks into a fit of giggles. You have to smile as her face lights up, the sheen of fresh tears making reddening cheeks glisten. She takes a bit of distance, scooting over, and you let her. She holds her hand out to forestall your next words, still giggling in starts. Another hand wipes messily at her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I- wow, this must look weird. I’m ohhhh my god, I cannot believe my life.”

You cock your head. “Oh?”

“I left my hotel room because I was bored, and here I am getting rescued from myself by the most famous adventurer in the world That’s me: getting in over my head in the most embarrassing ways and in front of Lara Croft to boot.”

* * *

It’s a few minutes more before Max is steady enough for you to get up and make you both some tea. Some horrible American excuse for tea. But she takes it happily, thankfully and apologetically.

“Thanks so much for this, Lara, I’m very sorry about all this. You shouldn’t have to-”

“Nonsense. I’m not about to let someone in distress suffer; I know what hell a panic attack can be.”

“You do?” Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

“Yamatai was no walk in the park. Especially for the young woman I was.”

“Oh, right. Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Everyone tends to forget the girl who was, only remembering the ‘Tomb Raider.’” Your eyes roll and Max smiles at the self-deprecation. 

“I get that. People are already calling me hero and all I did was survive.”

“As laudable as that is, from what I hear that’s not all you did.”

“Well,” she looks away, “I’m sure you know what I think about all the other stuff.”

You nod and mentally kick yourself. The woman just had a panic attack and clearly has PTSD of some variety; you should not be bringing up the _warzone_ she survived. Max ducks her head and takes a sip of tea, then looks around.

“So, this is how people who’ve made it live? I could get used to it, assuming I make it this far.”

“From what I’ve seen and been told, I don’t think that will be too long in coming.”

“Heh. Thanks for that. And as much as I like the place, I’d better get out of here, I’ve imposed for too long already.”

“Absolutely not. You just had a panic attack. Your chemical levels won’t stabilize for hours yet, and if you have a follow-up attack in the middle of the street, who knows what would happen.”

She hesitates, pausing in the middle of getting up. 

“Well, my hotel’s on the other side of the city. Even in an Uber it would take a while to get there. I should really get going.”

“Look, Max. If you really want to leave, I won’t get in your way. But please, trust me. You’re clearly not a fragile woman, but consider staying… under observation? God, that sounds so clinical, sorry, I’m making a hash of my words.”

Max smiles again, and the honesty and blossoming trust in it warms you. _I am in so much trouble_.

“Alright, I’ll stay a bit.”

“Excellent. Let’s get you a cover and me out of this damned stupid dress,” you say as you get up and make for the bedroom.

“I don’t think it’s stupid, I think it looks great!” Max says and immediately looks like she regrets it, reddening again.

“Oh sure, looks great,” you grouse, “I’d much rather be in your suit than this.”

 _Your pants, specificallyOH MY GOD LARA STOP_.

You close the bedroom door for enough privacy to shuck your dress and boots. Pulling on sweats, you look down at the bra you’ve been wearing and decide _sod it_. You ditch that too and pull on a loose dress shirt from your bag. You grab a light blanket from the foot of the bed and bring it with you as you leave the bedroom, whereupon you nearly freeze. There, in the kitchenette, is your gun case, lying open. _Brilliant move, Lara_.

You don’t think Max can see it from where she’s sat, so you hand her the blanket and move to the kitchen.

“More tea, Max? Or do you feel up to something stronger?”

“Oh man, believe me, I’d love to drink to forget this evening, but I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

“You sure? Let’s see, we’ve got-” you make a show of picking out beer bottles from the mini-fridge for display and as you run out of room, you take your case, close it, and leave it behind the counter. 

Max has strolled up and leans on the other side of the counter, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. 

“Miss Croft, are you trying to get me drunk? What happened to your concern?” The coy smile from behind bangs quickens your heart and dries your mouth.

“Like I said, not fragile. I’m sure you could take care of yourself.”

“Well, let’s see what sort of trouble I get into this time,” she murmurs and starts examining bottles. She takes her pick and with a quick banging motion pops the cap off the edge of the counter. You take one for yourself and follow her back to the couch.

* * *

Several hours, beers and stories later it is becoming increasingly obvious that a) Max is alright and b) not going to be leaving.

“Just crash here,” you’re saying. “You can have the bed, I’ll have this couch that I’ve claimed for the glory of England.”

You’re sprawled along the length of the couch, with Max sat before it, your hand tangled in her brown hair. You are gently massaging her scalp in what you hope is welcome attention and affection. Given the way she keeps pressing back into it, you doubt it.

“Well that’s not fair, it’s your bed!”

“Aha! No longer protesting staying! I’m wearing down her defenses.” A blue jacket whaps into your stomach and you let out a _whoof_ of air.

“I’m just saying I’d be happy to take the couch.”

“You can have it when you wrest it from my... languid, barely protesting sprawl.”

“I’d probably lose even that fight.”

“Well that’s not fair, I might yield before you.”

“Lara, look at these noodles,” she says, rolling up her sleeves far enough to expose her pale biceps. “I am not winning any hand-to-hand fights with the Tomb Raider with these.”

You reach out and give her biceps a squeeze, your hands lingering on her warm skin. 

“Well… yeah no. You’re right.” You both giggle. “I might still yield though.”

“Mmm, on any other night I might try my luck. But tonight I think I’ll just claim the acreage of your bed instead.”

“And so, my devious plan succeeds. From earnestly trying to leave to curling up in my bed, in under five minutes.”

“To be fair, I wasn’t trying that hard.”

“Oh poo. Well, always another night.”

“That’s true.” She takes another swig. “You are now officially invited to my showing tomorrow night, by the way.”

“You mean tonight. Well, the other tonight. You know what I mean.”

“Oh Jesus, is it that late already? Hell, I should crash. Early morning.”

“Don’t let me stop you. Bed’s all freshly made and I have this lovely blanket out here already.”

“Careful, Croft, you’re beginning to make me think you planned all this out.”

You shrug, and it takes some effort to pull your hand away as she gets up. You’ve made your intent clear enough, and she’s done the same for her comfort level. Another night, as you said.

You shift and toss about on the couch, burrowing yourself a comfortable spot, settling in for the night. The blanket smells like Max and you smile wryly that you can already identify her. You fall asleep to a chorus line of _you’ve got it bad, Lara_.

* * *

You come to screaming and gasping and restrained, which nearly puts you into a right frenzy until you realize that your restraints are soft arms and a woman is crying your name. Max. You remember now. You calm yourself.

Max is still crying, asking,

“Are you ok? Oh god, Lara are you ok? Y-you’re safe here, ok? It was just a dream.”

“I- yes, Max, thank you. I’m fine,” you lie, your heart pounding a mile a minute. You force yourself to relax. You’re on the couch still, but the blanket is nowhere to be seen. You look like you were curled into a ball in the center, and Max has sidled into the space left to hold you tight. Sensitive girl that she is, she was clearly distressed by your fit. You swallow thickly, thinking how much a fool you’ve been, thinking that you’re an appropriate caregiver for someone suffering panic attacks.

“Sorry about the night terrors. Occupation hazard,” you joke, lamely. Max shakes her head, sharply, almost viciously.

“Don’t apologize, it’s fine. God, you’ve had more of those? I don’t know how you do it, going back out there after an attack like that…”

“Max…” You want to tell her it’s because you have to face your fears, disarm them by challenging the world. You want to tell her about the call of adventure, the thrill of discovery. The addiction to danger and adrenaline. But you’ll spare her, you’ll spare this girl just back from a war she should never have been in. Instead, you just grasp her hand gently and squeeze.

“We all deal with our trauma in different ways. This works for me, for now.”

She squeezes back, and you take the opportunity to take a look around for a clock. _Four a.m. Christ._

“Sorry for waking you. You- we should probably get back to sleep.”

“Oh, yeah.” She shifts in her seat. “Just a sec, though.”

You’re still groggy from sleep, you must be, otherwise you don’t think you’d have missed her movements. In a smooth, practiced movement Max scoops you up and rises to her feet. Suddenly wide awake, you clutch at her front, ruining the perfection of the princess-carry. 

“Um, what…?”

“I’m taking you to bed, duh.”

Your face reddens immediately as your stomach explodes into butterflies. This was _not_ how you expected the evening to go.

“We’re both strong, not-fragile women, sure. But let’s be real. We’re also really desperate for some comfort, and sharing a bed instead of another round of “who gets the couch” seems like a pretty good way of going about that.”

“I… see. Just sharing a bed?”

“Yep. There may be some cuddles, I guess.”

“Aha. And you’re sure this is a goo- what you want?”

“Lara, trust me. This is the only outcome that doesn’t end with one of us miserable or regretful come morning.”

“Well, I suppose I’m not going to gainsay you, when this ‘outcome’ seems pleasant enough.”

“Good.”

“To bed then?”

“Hell, yes. Man, I knew you were built, but holy crap does muscle weigh a lot."

You give her a light slap and wrap your arms around her neck, allowing yourself to be carried to _your_ bed. Ridiculous. Amazing. Max’s release of you is less than gentle, sending her sprawling across your prone form, but neither of you is hurt and you both have a giggle at it. She brushes her hair from her face and stares at you with those blue eyes and you’re suddenly ok with a hundred more night terrors if this is how they end. 

She pulls the covers up and over you and you take the opportunity to sidle in close, wrapping an arm around her waist and grabbing a hold of her free hand with the other. She’s surprised by your cuddling into her larger frame, but doesn’t protest. A hand comes to rest on your hip and you smile up at her. It obviously has an effect because her blush is gorgeous, a thing that flushes down to her breasts. You laugh softly and bring your hands to your mouth.

With a kiss to her fingertips, you ask, “Do you play?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, a little.”

“You’ll have to play for me, sometime.”

“Heh, if you’ll suffer through me shaking off the rust.”

In response you brush your lips over her fingertips again and your thumb across the ones on her palm. Her hand draws little patterns on your skin where her fingers have slipped under your shirt and the butterflies get worse, in the best you. Your grin breaks free and you laugh into her shoulder, breathing in a scent like spring, feeling warmth like a summer day in this dead of night.


End file.
